The streets of Verenthia, once a bustling jewel within the duchy, now lay in a haunting quietude. The cobblestone roads were cracked, and gutters overflowed with stagnant water. Faded banners hung like forgotten relics, and skeletal trees clawed the gray skies above. But it was not the decay of infrastructure that weighed heavy upon Achilles' heart—it was the people.
Men, women, and even children huddled in corners of broken-down buildings. Their eyes were hollow, skin stretched over bone, lips cracked from thirst and hunger. They wore tatters, rags sewn together with hope and desperation. There were no markets open, no music from the taverns, no laughter in the air. Only the distant coughing of the ill and the silent pleas of the dying.
Achilles rode beside Kael, cloak drawn close over his shoulders as the wind nipped bitterly at his face. Behind them, Captain Ardan and a company of elite Verentis knights marched in formation, armored and vigilant. But the people barely reacted to their presence—some turned away in fear, others in hopelessness.
Kael spoke in a low tone, his voice strained. "This... this is not the duchy we left behind."
Achilles said nothing for a long moment. Then he answered, voice colder than the wind. "No. Someone let this happen."
He dismounted his steed, boots hitting the ground with a thud. His eyes scanned the streets—careful, calculating. He walked to a nearby woman sitting beside a collapsed house, a child asleep in her lap. She looked up weakly, startled as the armored figure approached.
"Lady," he said gently, kneeling to her level, "who governs this duchy in our absence?"
She blinked slowly, dazed. "The steward... he said he was left in charge. Lord Ervin."
Achilles' eyes narrowed. "Ervin was a minor scribe."
"He claimed the authority of House Verentis," she whispered. "But... the soldiers—your soldiers—they never came back. He took over. Said he had permission. But then the taxes... they kept rising. The food stopped coming."
Achilles rose to his full height. Behind his calm demeanor, fury simmered.
Kael leaned close. "Ervin was never meant to have power beyond the books."
"He doesn't anymore," Achilles replied sharply.
At that moment, a lithe shadow appeared on the rooftop—silent as nightfall. It was the assassin he had sent ahead to the Verentis estate two days ago, clad in black with only his eyes visible.
The man landed quietly beside Achilles and knelt.
"My lord. The estate has been sealed for months. Guards patrol the area, not our own. Documents inside the manor were replaced. All mentions of House Verentis are buried. The steward—Ervin—rules from your father's hall. Your family's crest has been removed."
Kael's eyes widened. "He's usurped your household."
Achilles stared into the distance, fists tightening at his side. "And yet no word reached us."
"Someone tampered with the royal channels," the assassin continued. "Your letters—any written correspondence—never left the duchy. I found them burned inside the keep."
Achilles closed his eyes for a moment. It all began to make sense. The silence from his parents. The lack of royal dispatches. The homelessness. The decay.
Kael stepped forward. "Do you wish to act now?"
"No," Achilles said, surprising him. "We've waited this long. We will wait just a little longer... with purpose."
He turned to the shadow.
"Spread word among the hidden network. I want to know every ally and enemy Ervin has. Every transaction, every secret meeting, every bribe. He's built a fortress from our legacy—I intend to turn it to dust."
"Yes, my lord."
The assassin vanished into the shadows once more.
Kael frowned. "And what of the people?"
"We begin distributing aid tomorrow. Quietly. Food from our hidden reserves. Coin from what remains in the vaults we buried years ago. Let the people remember who their true protectors are."
Kael nodded. "And the estate?"
Achilles' eyes gleamed with steel. "We'll reclaim it. But not through brute force. Not yet."
He turned back toward the streets, watching a pair of children struggle to share a crust of bread.
"We rebuild the heart before we strike the head."
---
That evening, the Verentis camp was set outside the city—hidden in the surrounding forest to avoid premature detection. Fires flickered quietly, and the knights of the borderlands watched their commander not as a lord, but as a symbol.
Within his tent, Achilles reviewed Kael's maps of the duchy and his assassin's early reports. There was already a network of underground resistance—former retainers and loyalists to House Verentis who had gone into hiding. They would be his eyes and ears.
Kael poured a glass of wine and handed it to him. "We're close."
Achilles accepted it but didn't drink. "Closer than they realize."
His gaze flicked to the candlelight, where shadows danced across the canvas.
In those shadows, vengeance stirred.